


Deja Vu (All Over Again)

by schweet_heart



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angry Sex, Angst, Canon Era, Dubious Morality, Established Relationship, M/M, Memory Alteration, Merlin's Magic Revealed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-27 14:34:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15026768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: Merlin has never been as good at lying as he thinks he is, because he doesn’t expect Arthur to be paying attention. But Arthur is always paying attention to Merlin.





	Deja Vu (All Over Again)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Clea2011](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clea2011/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Deja Vu](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2512856) by [Clea2011](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clea2011/pseuds/Clea2011). 



> Clea, don’t ever apologise for the number of drabbles you’ve written—I had a great time reading through them when I was trying to decide what to remix. I was definitely spoilt for choice! Eventually, however, I settled on this one, because I was really intrigued by what might have happened once Arthur remembered for real. I hope you like my addition to this ‘verse!
> 
> With huge thanks to my beta (who shall remain anonymous) and to the mods for their patience. You guys rock!

 

It’s the familiarity of it that rankles—that keeps Arthur lying awake, night after night, turning it over in his head until he wakes up, heavy-eyed and stupid, without having noticed that he has fallen asleep. That look: angled, the gaze half turned away, the moue of the lips curving down in disappointment even as he pretends that nothing is wrong.

 

Arthur is used to disappointment. He is not used to seeing it on Merlin’s face.

 

In context, it’s such a small thing. Merlin had been asking for a day off, but Arthur couldn’t possibly spare him, not with a Northumbrian delegation on its way. Arthur isn’t sure what could be so important, but Merlin has that air about him again, furtive and only half present, and it is perhaps this more than any imagined necessity which makes Arthur put his foot down.

 

“I can’t be expected to do without my manservant on such an important occasion,” he says, which is about as close as he ever comes to admitting how much he needs Merlin, always. “How would it look, the King of Camelot without a body servant, when there are sorcerers in King Eldred’s court who are better attended? You’re part of the royal household, _Mer_ lin, you can’t just wander off whenever you fancy it.”

 

They have played this game before; often enough that he expects Merlin to read between the lines and smile back at him, to either playfully agree that Arthur would be lost without someone to coddle him, or to explain, carefully and confidingly, the true, urgent reason that would take him away at such a time.

 

Instead, Merlin just looks—disappointed.

 

“Of course, sire,” he says, bowing stiffly, which is something that Merlin would usually never do except in jest. “I understand.”

 

He doesn’t, though, and the realisation of it is like a sudden misstep on the tourney field, the confusion of lunging for a blow that never lands. Arthur watches Merlin pick up the rest of his things and fold them neatly, his fingers fisting in the cloth for a moment before letting go. Merlin has never been as good at lying as he thinks he is, because he doesn’t expect Arthur to be paying attention. But Arthur is always paying attention to Merlin.

  


*

  


Something has been off for a while now, although Arthur appears to be the only one who has noticed. Certainly, Merlin seems to be wholly oblivious, though this could be because he himself is the source of the problem.

 

“This scar,” Arthur says idly, pressing his fingertips to the white line of flesh curving over Merlin’s hipbone. “Where did you get it?”

 

“Fell off a horse,” Merlin grunts, shifting a little. His spent cock brushes against the back of Arthur’s knuckles, and Arthur smiles. “I landed badly.”

 

“And this one?”

 

“Fell out of a hay-cart.”

 

The next touch provokes a shudder of reaction, which might have been pleasing except it has nothing to do with sex.

 

“Don’t remember that one,” Merlin says after a moment, the strained, breathy quality to his voice telling Arthur more than his words. He has a sudden image of Merlin on his back, a spear-point through his shoulder, already twisting away from Arthur as he flings up his other arm with a shout— “Was a long time ago.”

 

It was six months ago at most, Arthur is sure of it; the scar has softened some, but it is still far from an old wound, the flesh puckered and slightly pink at the edges. It had appeared not long after Merlin had gone off on one of his little trips, an errand for Gaius, so Arthur had thought nothing of it at the time—now, though, it strikes him as another oddity, one more thing about Merlin that he is unable to explain.

 

“It must have hurt,” he murmurs, tracing his thumb over the mark. “Are you sure—”

 

“Arthur,” Merlin interrupts, and there is something in his tone that makes the hair stand up on the back of Arthur’s neck. “I don’t—please—”

 

“All right,” Arthur agrees, giving in, though he has the sense that he is missing something; something important. Merlin has never been speared in a fight, though the scar is the same size and shape as one a spear _would_ leave, which he supposes is what must have made him think of it. He laves his tongue over the spot, caressing, causing Merlin to let out a soft sound and curl in on himself, pressing his face into the juncture of Arthur’s neck. For the time being, at least, the subject is forgotten.

  


*

  


There are other things, too. When the Northumbrian delegation arrives, Merlin is nowhere to be seen, despite having promised Arthur that he would be there as ordered. Unsettled, Arthur finds himself scanning the battlements to mark the placement of the sentries, their ranks supplemented by archers tucked discreetly between the crenellations. They would likely prove next to useless if it came to a fight, since they’re too far away to be very effective, but he feels somewhat better just knowing that they are there.

 

He would feel better still if he had Merlin at his back, though what he thinks Merlin could do against a parade of trained warriors he can’t imagine.

 

“Welcome, King Eldred,” he says formally, when the king dismounts from his horse at the head of the procession. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

 

“The pleasure is ours, sire,” Eldred says with an easy smile. He’s a tall man, older than Arthur’s father had been, but still hearty. “It’s been a long time since we last saw Camelot; so much has changed.”

 

“Indeed it has,” Arthur says, thinking, inevitably, of Uther. “But not all for the worse, I hope.”

 

“That remains to be seen.”

 

Arthur’s wayward manservant joins the company as they move inside, falling into step beside the king as if he had always been there. Arthur knows from a sidelong glance that Merlin won’t tell him where he has been; if he asks, he will only receive one of Merlin’s familiar non-answers—something vague about an errand, perhaps, a crisis in the kitchens that couldn’t have been avoided. This is starting to feel familiar, too, this half awareness of his manservant’s other life; once upon a time Arthur had thought Merlin a man without secrets, but he’s beginning to realise that is far from true.

 

The feast that evening is a lavish one, replete with the best food and wine that Camelot can offer. When he was younger, Arthur had found such occasions trying, having to sit through his father’s boring speeches before being permitted to eat and drink. They are no less taxing now that he is the one speaking, but he finds himself better able to appreciate the performance of it, the chance to show off Camelot’s bounty before a visiting king. Northumbria is a prosperous kingdom, but it is good to know that Camelot can hold her own, even without the use of magic.

 

“It is our hope that in the future, we will have more than just trade goods to share with your kingdom,” King Eldred tells him, once the meal has begun in earnest. “You will be aware, of course, that your father and I never saw eye to eye on the subject of sorcery.”

 

There is a moment when Arthur thinks Merlin is going to drop his pitcher, but he catches it, and fumblingly refills King Eldred’s goblet of wine. “The two of you did not see eye to eye on many things, Lord Eldred,” Arthur says casually, fighting off a prickle of unease. “I have no doubt we will find the same. But I am hopeful that we will be able to come to an agreement in spite of our differences—there is much that I would like to learn.”

 

That makes King Eldred laugh, and he tips his goblet towards Arthur in a salute. “Well said, my lord,” he says. “A toast, then. To new horizons, and old friendships.”

 

“To new horizons.” Arthur catches Merlin’s eye as he repeats the toast. “And old friends.”

 

It happens between one heartbeat and the next, in the moment before Arthur brings his goblet to his lips. He has an instant’s recollection of another cup at another feast, the taste of mead in his mouth laced with something bitter. Merlin’s worried face had been staring down at him, murmuring something in a tongue Arthur didn’t understand before lifting a vial to his lips and encouraging him to drink. An antidote. Had he been poisoned?

 

It has to be a recent memory, because Merlin’s outfit was the same as it is now, his hair the same length, curling sweetly around his ears and feathering the side of his neck. There had been another such feast only a few months past, less ostentatious, celebrating the marriage of one of the minor lords. But it had gone off without a hitch, the lord and his bride riding out the next morning with cries of gratitude still on their lips. He has no reason to be reflecting on it now.

 

When he looks back, Merlin is watching him steadily, as if he knows exactly what Arthur is thinking.

 

“Is the wine not to your taste, my lord?” he asks deferentially. “I’ll fetch another flagon, shall I?”

  


*

  


He is still thinking about it days later, when he’s coming down the main stairwell and hears Merlin’s voice—talking to Gwen, it sounds like, relaxed and happy as he hasn’t been for weeks. It’s not exactly unheard of for a king to resort to eavesdropping in his own castle, but Arthur feels slightly guilty for it anyway, drawing back into the shadows to watch as the two of them cross the landing below.

 

It’s pure chance that he sees it. Guinevere falters slightly at the next flight of stairs, the bundle of laundry she is carrying no doubt upsetting her centre of gravity. Arthur has taken half a step forward, reaching out towards her as if he could possibly make a difference from this distance, when an invisible hand grabs at her smock and pulls her to safety. She stumbles back a step with an exclamation of dismay, the clean linens teetering precariously in her arms as she rights herself.

 

“Thank you, Merlin,” she says, putting a hand to her throat as Merlin comes up behind her. “I don’t know what happened—I must’ve lost track of where I was putting my feet.”

 

“It’s all right,” Merlin says, smiling. He reaches out to take some of the sheets from her arms. “I’d always protect you, you know that.”

 

From where Arthur stands, stock still, he can just see the curve of Merlin’s cheek as he glances back up the stairwell, his face expressionless. There is a soft light still fading from his irises, burnishing the his skin with gold. Gwen doesn’t notice, chattering away as she continues her trek towards the laundry—but Arthur does, perhaps because he knows to look for it.

 

Perhaps because he has seen Merlin’s eyes do that before.

  


*

  


“Where did you go?” Merlin asks when Arthur returns, sitting up in the king’s bed with his hair still tousled from sleep, his eyes half-open. Although he looks relaxed, there is a kind of tension in his pose, almost as if he’s anticipating a fight. “I thought you'd be back hours ago.”

 

“I went for a ride,” Arthur says shortly. “Needed to clear my head.”

 

“At this time of night?” More alert now, Merlin slips out of bed, padding across the room to where Arthur is struggling with his cloak. “Is something wrong?”

 

Instead of answering, Arthur allows Merlin to take over the unlacing, watching the steadiness of those fingers at his throat, the same hands that have bathed him, held him, fucked him—killed for him. In the half light, Merlin is a pale shadow, the smudge of his mouth soft and slightly parted as he concentrates on his work. Hard to believe such a man could topple armies with anything other than his incompetence; but then, Arthur has long known that Merlin has never been incompetent, not when it comes to the things that matter.

 

“Arthur?” Merlin’s hands have stopped. Glancing up, Arthur catches the bright blue gaze on him, silver now in the moonlight spilling through the window. He had forgotten to draw the hangings again. “What is it?”

 

“Nothing.” Arthur shakes his head, shrugging off the cloak and letting it fall to the floor. Merlin doesn’t object to that the way he usually would have, his eyes still fixed on Arthur’s face. “Undress me?”

 

“All right.”

 

His tone is hesitant, but his hands are cool and unconcerned, sliding over Arthur’s body in a rhythm that is so familiar it has long since lost the ability to titillate. Following Arthur’s lead, he doesn’t bother folding the clothes to put away but lets them fall as they will, until Arthur is bare save for his white linen shirt, standing exposed on the cold flagstone floor. The tension in the room is more than just sexual, but Arthur doesn’t wait to gauge Merlin’s mood before pushing him back onto the mattress, straddling his thighs and kissing him hard on the mouth.

 

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he says roughly, his hand already finding its way between Merlin's legs. “It won't happen again.”

  


*

  


In the morning, Merlin is up and dressed already when Arthur wakes, his back turned to the king where he sits at the end of the bed. He looks pale and washed out, as though he hasn’t slept well, and one of Arthur's love bites stands out livid above his neckerchief, marring the perfection of his milky skin. Arthur regards the bruise without any particular regret; there should be some tangible evidence to mark their night together, even if Merlin may be the only one to remember it.

 

“Is this the part where you take my memories again?” he asks, and it comes out sounding harsher than he’d expected. Merlin stills for a moment, his shoulders tensing, before he resumes pulling on his boots without turning his head.

 

“How much do you remember?”

 

“Enough.” He remembers all of it, in fact—including the first time, when he’d held his sword to Merlin’s throat. “You're a sorcerer.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You—” The next words are harder. “You’ve been enchanting me. Making me forget.”

 

“You weren't ready to understand,” Merlin explains, looking away. He resettles the fit of his boots and ties them, tugging the laces tight. “It was never the right time.”

 

“That was hardly your decision.” Arthur pushes up from the bed, ignoring his discarded trousers and striding over to the window. In the courtyard below, King Eldred and his men are getting ready for the day's hunt, the sound of their eager voices mingling with the barking of excited hounds. How much of this new alliance is Merlin’s doing, and how much of it came about by his own hand? He will probably never find out.

 

“You believed magic was evil,” Merlin says softly, as if reading his thoughts. “I had to wait until there was a chance that you might change your mind."

 

Or have it changed for him. “Damn it, Merlin, you can’t just magic the knowledge away because you don’t like my reaction to it!”

 

“Even if your reaction is to send me to the pyre?” Merlin retorts, and Arthur turns on a furious inhale, picking up his dagger and flinging it bodily across the room. It lands, quivering, in the wooden door of one of his armoires, and he stares at it for a second, aware of his laboured breathing filling the silent room.

 

“I hate this,” he says savagely, his voice low. “I hate it, I hate—” _You_ , he almost says, but bites it back. It’s not Merlin he’s angriest at, not really. “This ends now.”

 

“Does it?” Merlin asks quietly. “Are you finally ready to accept me for who I am?”

 

“I don’t _know_ who you are.”

 

Merlin can’t suppress his flinch at that, but when he replies he just sounds tired. “Of course you do, Arthur. I’m the same person I’ve always been.”

 

Perhaps if he were not so calm, Arthur would have found it easier. But Merlin is always so composed during these conversations; having lived through all the possible permutations of this moment, it must seem to him as though the worst has already happened, so he has little to lose by taking things as they come. Arthur, by contrast, can still taste the fury of the first discovery, the betrayal of having the facts taken from him again and again before he can fully process the truth.

 

“I don’t want you here,” he says, meaning _here, in his chambers_ , but also _here, in Camelot_. In his life. “I want you gone.”

 

“I know, Arthur.” They’ve had this exchange before. “But I can’t leave you.”

 

“Then stay,” Arthur says bitterly, biting off each word between his teeth. “Fulfil your destiny, or whatever it is you think you’re doing here. But this—” he gestures between them. “This doesn’t happen again.”

 

“Arthur—”

 

“No.” It feels like tearing off a limb to say it, but it must be done; in a way, the decision has already been made. “I will be your king, if that’s what you want. I might even consider changing the laws on magic. But beyond that—no more enchantments. We will be as we were before.”

 

“Master and servant.”

 

Arthur nods. “And only that.” He watches the thoughts flit across Merlin’s face, before adding coldly, “You can, of course, try to wipe my memories anyway and start again. I can’t stop you. But you can never be sure that I won’t remember on my own.”

 

“And then what?” Merlin’s voice is level, but there’s something like defiance in his eyes. “You’ll try to kill me? That didn’t go so well for you before.”

 

“Maybe not,” Arthur agrees. “But you know me, Merlin. How do you think I will feel, if and when I remember what you’ve done? Underneath it all, all of the lies and all of the pretending, some part of me will always know and that part will never forgive you.” The resistance in Merlin’s expression flickers and dies, and Arthur says simply, “It’s your choice.”

 

It isn’t really a choice at all, and they both know it. _You must decide quickly_ , Merlin had said the last time, holding out his hand to Arthur. _You know me, you know I’m not evil. Can’t you accept that?_

 

As it turned out, Arthur couldn’t.

  



End file.
